


Moulding Clay

by wildenessat221b



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Mild Angst, soul searching, they love each other a lot, viktor looks for god, viktor's not sure who he wants to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 08:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10510137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildenessat221b/pseuds/wildenessat221b
Summary: Figure skaters were pretty things, nobody could deny it.





	

Figure skaters were pretty things, nobody could deny it. 

Pointed toes and dainty fingers, chins tilted to the skies. Pale cheeks, feather light, skirting across the ice without leaving a trace. Quiet, furtive, moving as though encased in cotton wool. 

Shredded feet, glass hearts. 

They were pretty things. 

***

Viktor had never believed in god, because he'd simply never had a cause to. 

He had crossed the days of early childhood off the calendar with his atheist parents, then his teenage years with Yakov, who felt that God had abandoned him along with the rise of the Soviet Union. 

Once he moved out, he spent some time searching for meaning. He was alone, after all and maybe the idea that someone was watching him whatever he did was comforting. 

So he took off to Jerusalem, and Mecca, and the towering cathedrals of Italy. He climbed mountains, and danced through fields, and breathed in cool air that he could believe had never been breathed before. 

And felt... nothing. 

There were no eyes on him, nobody nudging him along, no creator, no purpose.

He thought he'd be sad, but he wasn't. Wasn't anything. 

He went home, and started skating again, this time secure in the knowledge that it was for no greater gain.

Just another day. Another routine. Another gold. 

***

Figure skaters were pretty things, nobody could deny it. 

Pointed toes and dainty fingers, chins tilted to the skies. Pale cheeks, feather light, skirting across the ice without leaving a trace. Quiet, furtive, moving as though encased in cotton wool. 

Shredded feet, glass hearts. 

They were pretty things. 

Pretty things of their own creation. 

***

Viktor invented himself once, twice, again and again.

He was the androgynous prince, youthful and porcelain. Innocent, with pink cheeks like a cherub who'd just sealed two lovers together. 

He was the young hero, neat and groomed. Silver hair swept off his face, eyes cool and inviting. He devised programmes about things like 'energy' and 'power,' and ran on adrenaline and coffee. 

He was a god, untouchable and lit up by the stage lights. He wore black and grey, and skated with a dark passion that the judges called 'excellent acting.' 

(Red faced drunks called him dreadful names in a nightclub bathroom, and after that he was a god with short hair.)

He was a thespian, who was just beyond caring. Soul bone dry, sucked out of him by the flashes of the camera, the words printed in tabloids and the eyes that never stopped watching him. 

By his fifth gold, he found himself lying in bed wondering who he was going to be next. 

He hadn't the faintest idea. 

***

Figure skaters were pretty things, nobody could deny it. 

Pointed toes and dainty fingers, chins tilted to the skies. Pale cheeks, feather light, skirting across the ice without leaving a trace. Quiet, furtive, moving as though encased in cotton wool. 

Shredded feet, glass hearts. 

They were pretty things. 

Pretty things of their own creation. 

Pretty things that could be created and recreated as many times as was needed.

Mounded like clay beyond recognition, until it dries and bits start to fall off. 

***

Then all of a sudden, there was Yuri Katsuki and he was wonderful. Drunk, messy, drooling, uninhibited and wonderful. 

He danced like he'd never been still, and like he could never be stopped. He spun Viktor around and pressed against his chest, and they started to breathe in sync and Viktor felt a stirring of something like life. 

It was terrifying.

It was electrifying. 

He felt charged on something that wasn't coffee or fear or anger for the first time in more than a decade.

So of course, he jumped on a plane to the exasperated distaste of everyone close to him, and never once looked back. 

Surely they could see that he was awake after a lifetime of struggling through a sharp sort of drowsiness. 

***

Figure skaters were pretty things, nobody could deny it. 

Pointed toes and dainty fingers, chins tilted to the skies. Pale cheeks, feather light, skirting across the ice without leaving a trace. Quiet, furtive, moving as though encased in cotton wool. 

Shredded feet, glass hearts. 

They were pretty things. 

Pretty things of their own creation. 

Pretty things that could be created and recreated as many times as was needed.

Mounded like clay beyond recognition, until it dries and bits start to fall off. 

But the exciting thing about bits falling off is that you start to expose what's underneath. 

***

He tried new food and danced to new music in Japan. 

He walked through new streets and breathed in new air. 

He slept in bed with a human being.

He sat by the sea, and was told by a beautiful boy to be himself, and nothing more.

He hadn't the heart to tell him that he didn't know who that was, but felt strangely confident that he'd find out. 

He felt it even more when they locked lips for the first time, and Yuri Katsuki wasn't kissing a caricature of Viktor Nikiforov, gold medalist and national treasure. 

He was kissing Viktor Nikiforov, a boy who was alive and flesh and blood, and in love with another boy. 

***

Figure skaters were pretty things, nobody could deny it. 

Pointed toes and dainty fingers, chins tilted to the skies. Pale cheeks, feather light, skirting across the ice without leaving a trace. Quiet, furtive, moving as though encased in cotton wool. 

Shredded feet, glass hearts. 

They were pretty things. 

Pretty things of their own creation. 

Pretty things that could be created and recreated as many times as was needed.

Mounded like clay beyond recognition, until it dries and bits start to fall off. 

But the exciting thing about bits falling off is that you start to expose what's underneath. 

And once the hard exterior is peeled away, there is suddenly space to swell and grow. 

***

They had sex for the first time, warm and passionate, and they loved each other. 

They loved each other so, so much. 

Viktor stared up at the ceiling, wide awake and buzzing, then pressed his face into Yuri's chest and started to cry. Happy, overwhelmed, certain tears.

'Viktor?'

'I'm sure of something. I'm sure.'

'What?'

'If life begins anywhere, or has any purpose, it's here, it's now and it's this.'

***

Figure skaters were pretty things, nobody could deny it. 

Pointed toes and dainty fingers, chins tilted to the skies. Pale cheeks, feather light, skirting across the ice without leaving a trace. Quiet, furtive, moving as though encased in cotton wool. 

Shredded feet, glass hearts. 

They were pretty things. 

Pretty things of their own creation. 

Pretty things that could be created and recreated as many times as was needed.

Mounded like clay beyond recognition, until it dries and bits start to fall off. 

But the exciting thing about bits falling off is that you start to expose what's underneath. 

And once the hard exterior is peeled away, there is suddenly space to swell and grow. 

And once you start to grow, it's difficult to stop. You're growing and you're flowering, bursting into impossible, vibrant colours and towering above it all. 

And then you're marrying the man you love in the summer sun, and then you're on the podium with him, full and empowered. And then you're retiring for real, and you start coaching people that aren't your husband. 

And everything's not perfect, because it never is. 

But there's always a warm bed waiting for you, and a pair of loving arms, and gold around your ring finger. 

And you know that figure skaters are more than just pretty things. 

They're people. 

Rough and imperfect and alive.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! It makes me indescribably happy when people comment, so please do! Have a wonderful day.


End file.
